


Lord of the Bats

by venetianAnarchist



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Lord of the Flies
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Lord of the Flies, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Angst, Badass lesbians, Batfamily Feels, Batjokes Centric, Desert Island Fic, Difficult Decisions, F/F, Flirting, Girl Squad - Freeform, I Mean - Freeform, Joker Is Jack, Joker is Joseph Kerr, M/M, No Batman, Past Joker/Harleen Quinzel, Polyamory, Rating May Change, Scriddler will be important my dudes, Slow Burn, Survival Horror, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, What Have I Done, bruce centric, everything is just difficult alright, jack napier - Freeform, lord of the flies - Freeform, other difficult shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-19 18:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venetianAnarchist/pseuds/venetianAnarchist
Summary: Bruce Wayne is stuck on an island. It's not the sort of island he's used to - the distinct lack of tropical resorts and pina coladas is enough to confirm this - it's deserted. Completely and utterly deserted. Alfred is as pale as the sand beneath their feet, Tim is unconscious, the plane is in the sea, and there's an ex-con hanging off his arm like the Princess Buttercup to his Westley. Considering their circumstances, he's fairly sure he's giving off more of a Dread Pirate Roberts kind of vibe. Buttercup, green hair and stolen tube of lipstick, seems more than okay with this.(AKA, the Lord of the Flies Batjokes fic you always needed. Always. I promise.)





	1. This Time Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be centred on Bruce and Joker/Jack/Joseph, with a touch of Eddie and Crane, and some much-needed Selina/Ivy/Harley.  
> I have it all plotted out, Lord of the Flies fresh on my mind, and a Batjokes obsession a mile wide. I'll update as frequently as I can! <3
> 
> Also! Please note the tags, just in case I add a warning there that isn't your thing. All I can promise is that this will have a happy ending, I shit you not. 
> 
> Special thanks to all the fanatics in our Batjokes group-chat, for listening to my insane ramblings about this idea, and to all the fic writers who inspired me to start writing again. You're so very appreciated, my dears.

“First class is through to the back, sir.”

Bruce ducked his head appreciatively at the hostess, giving a charming grin that he hoped didn’t come off quite as miserable as he felt. At this point, any degree of believability would be an absolute miracle; he’d had a four-hour stopover in Reykjavik during which he’d consumed three coffees and a shot of vodka, because he knew that the second he allowed himself to sleep, he’d probably never wake up again, let alone in time for the next flight.

London had been amazing. While it had been much more of a work trip than a recreational one, he’d decided to take the kids along, just for the hell of it.

Dick had become obsessed with Crystal Palace F.C – much to Alfred’s chagrin, being a West Ham supporter himself – and Tim had obsessively located every historically important spot within tram-distance of their hotel.

Overall, Bruce didn’t regret it at all. Seeing his family enjoying themselves, Alfred included, was one of the things he lived for. Work usually tended to get in the way, and he felt pleased with the way this trip had turned out.

The coffees, on the other hand, were not being quite so kind.

“Who knew Icelandic coffee was so strong, huh Bruce?” Dick quipped, settling himself in the leather-covered seat across from Bruce and stretching his legs out as far as they would go. Bruce frowned at him, not appreciating how well-rested and chipper he seemed to be.

Alfred sat beside him, quirking an eyebrow at Dick until the young man got the message and tucked his feet away nice and neatly. Bruce snorted.

Tim, however, looked as though he was completely unconscious the second he sat down, a groan escaping his lips on impact with the seat. Bruce probably would have felt sorry for him, if it hadn’t been entirely Tim’s fault in the first place. Dick and Alfred had slept for an hour or two while they were in Reykjavik, but not Tim. Tim had joined Barbara Gordon for a tour around the Icelandic capitol, and had only made it back to the airport on time by the skin of his teeth.

“Did you see the Volcano House?” Dick asked, all easy smile and spritely tone, and all he received in reply was another, louder groan.

The air hostess returned in a matter of minutes, offering champagne and snacks, and Bruce couldn’t think of anything worse in that very moment.

He ordered most of it anyway.

“Did you make sure Barbara found her father alright?” Bruce asked, after having a sip from his champagne flute and shuddering at the cold. Cold beverages should not be legal in a country that already had him freezing his ass off twenty-four seven.

“Yeah, they’re in business,” Tim responded, from behind the tangle of limbs that he’d become since he arrived in his seat. Bruce smiled at him, shaking his head softly. Both of his adoptive sons could be alarmingly similar to Bruce himself, at times.

“Why were they even in Iceland, anyway? Who the heck goes to Iceland intentionally?” Dick sounded genuinely incredulous. Bruce decided to leave that conversation to the others, focusing instead on pulling out his phone and checking that everything was alright before he had to turn it off.

There was a message from Lucius, saying that the sister company in London had confirmed that they were onboard with the deal, and Bruce let himself relax slightly. For someone who was generally considered useless and shallow in the public eye, he wasn’t all that bad at making business advancements.

Then again, that was probably more false charm than any actual skill in the area.

He was skimming through his Twitter feed when someone passed by their booth, and Bruce found himself glancing up with what was decidedly less than genuine interest. He was used to being alone – or close to it – in first class, especially on international flights. There really weren’t that many people who could pay the ticket prices.

His disinterest, however, did not last.

The man sitting opposite their booth was something else entirely. For one thing – one obvious thing – his hair was as green as the Icelandic forests themselves, his skin was pale even by the European standards by which Bruce had grown accustomed to, and he had, for whatever reason, handcuffs around his wrists.

There was a moment in which Bruce took the liberty to stare at the green-haired man and the one escorting him, too. Europe could be quite eccentric, Bruce knew from experience, but this?

Yeah, something else.

And then the moment was broken, and sharp green eyes connected with his own, and Bruce could only take in the flash of brilliantly white teeth before he was flattening himself against the back of his seat and staring straight ahead once more.

That was none of his business, he didn’t want it to be any of his business, and as far as he was concerned, it never would be.

“What’s with the Oscar the Grouch impersonator?” Dick’s highly unsubtle stage-whisper was enough to snap Bruce out of his weird trance-like state, and he found himself supressing a laugh.

“Don’t be rude, Master Dick,” Alfred reprimanded him, though there did seem to be some amusement in his tone.

Bruce was just thankful that there was someone around who could keep them all in line. For what was certainly not the first time that day, even, he wondered where he’d be without the old man in his life. The answer to that was never something he liked to ponder.

“Wanna loosen these cuffs a little, maybe?”

Bruce didn’t want to listen. He shouldn’t have listened.

“They’re not to be tampered with in any way until we’re off the ground, and you’re properly supervised.”

Alas, he listened anyway. It was because they were in such close quarters, he assured himself. He certainly wasn’t nosy or overly curious about why a criminal with bright green hair was on his plane, speaking perfect English with no trace of the European accent that Bruce had naturally expected.

Not even remotely curious.

Dick was not trying to lie to himself. He had his head tilted in the direction of the other man, listening with unabashed curiosity. Tim, on the other hand, seemed to be completely unconscious, and Alfred was probably minding his own business for real, because he was upstanding citizen with brilliant manners, naturally.

“That’s no fun at all,” The lilted, whining tone complained, sending a chill up Bruce’s spine. There was something kind of familiar about that voice.

And then it clicked, and Bruce found himself intentionally angling himself away again. This was the guy who’d kidnapped Gotham’s mayor and then evaded police capture.

Bruce didn’t even want to know the circumstances upon which he was in Iceland. He couldn’t remember a whole lot about the case, probably because it hadn’t ended up being anywhere near as deadly or theatrical as the perpetrator had intended, but Bruce certainly knew enough to want nothing to do with him.

Unfortunately, fate was not on Bruce Wayne’s side.

“Hey, You’re Bruce Wayne!”

He stiffened. Dick flinched. Alfred cleared his throat.

Tim continued to sleep, and Bruce envied him, so much that it hurt.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, turning up the playboy act and putting on his best smile. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Ouch! I thought my reputation would proceed me, you being a fellow Gothamite and all. The name’s Joseph Kerr!” There was a metallic jingling sound, like someone rattling keys, and Bruce realised that the man was trying to extend his hand.

“Whoops, that’s not gonna work, pardon my rudeness,” Kerr chirped, and Bruce found himself a little bit disconcerted by his cheeriness. He was in handcuffs, after all.

Bruce gave him another smile, looking appropriately airheaded. Maybe it was a bit mean, but he often overplayed the whole shallow billionaire act to a whole new level, just to get out of conversations. There was only so much you could say to someone who clearly only gave a shit about themselves.

“Ooh, these must be the kiddies! The whole orphan thing, that’s a good one,” the man prattled on, and Bruce found himself instinctively looking towards Dick, who sat stiffly with a tight jaw. “I really should have thought about that, you know. Gives a whole good-Samaritan vibe to a person, doesn’t it? Yeah, I could use one of those…” He trailed off for a moment, wriggling in his seat and clearly trying to slip his cuffs. “… Those vibes.”

“Well, Dick and Tim aren’t orphans,” he said, trying a smile, knowing it looked forced. “I’m their father, legally, so they’re not orphans.”

Kerr waggled his eyebrows almost comically, then gave a peel of laughter. He squirmed again, this time earning a warning from the man who Bruce assumed was a prison escort. “Of course! Of course, of course,” the man hummed, seeming, apparently, to lose interest in the conversation. Bruce allowed himself a sigh, shifted slightly in his seat, let his eyes close just for a second…

The pounding in his head was getting louder, more uncomfortable. He’d need to try and nap on this flight if he still wanted to be sane when they landed in Gotham.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please remain seated from now until the seatbelt icon appears on your screen, we can begin take-off. Please watch our safety video and check that everything is in order.” The voice then repeated itself in another language, that Bruce assumed was Icelandic.

There was a beeping sound, and then the voice was gone again, and Bruce took a long sip of his champagne. In his periphery, he noted the guard securing Kerr’s seatbelt, right by the window seat, and Bruce felt a little bit better in the knowledge that the criminal would be relatively distracted throughout their flight.

 

* * *

 

“Master Bruce,” came Alfred’s gentle voice from somewhere far off. He cracked an eye open, a yawn escaping before he could stop it, and then wiped a hand lazily across his face.

It took a moment to get his bearings, but he did, eventually. The lack of pressure in his ears told him they’d been flying at a consistent altitude for a while now, and he felt tremendously grateful to have missed the worst of it.

“I’m awake now, Alfred,” he mumbled, glancing at the two seats across from him and finding only the butler. Then to his side, too; Tim was also nowhere to be found.

“Where’re the kids?”

“Tim is seeing Barbara Gordon, Dick has gone to find an air hostess. I believe he wanted some more peanuts.”

Bruce gave a nod, rolling his shoulders back, feeling a pleasing strain when he worked out a kink in his back. The air hummed with the familiar sound of television and murmured voices, and the luxury first-class cabin felt like it could have been in an overnight train, or a modernist hotel room.

Bruce wasn’t a fan of air-travel, never had been, but he felt safe enough. It wasn’t so much the fear of flying and more the general discomfort of it all. He would have felt even worse for the people having to endure economy, if he let himself dwell on it, though.

“You’ve been asleep for a few hours now,” Alfred told him, and the soft tone and fond expression made Bruce want to curl up and continue to do exactly that. He almost felt like a child again.

However, if he remembered rightly, the flight should only take around six hours, if they were lucky with the weather. That meant they’d be touching down in a matter of hours, and the thought was extremely comforting.

Bruce gave a sigh, unfolded his legs, and stood. He was shaky for a moment, but the sight of clouds, dark and thick-looking out the window, made him suddenly feel very sober indeed. Too sober.

Maybe there was a part of him that was a little bit afraid of flying. Just a little bit. He knew it wasn’t logical, but he’d be damned if he was supposed to be more scared of cows or something like the statistics always liked to tell people.

“I’m going to use the bathroom. Need anything?”

Alfred shook his head, replaced his earbuds, and closed his eyes. Bruce wondered what he was listening to, and he would have asked, but natured called, and nature didn’t like to be kept waiting when you were forty years old and over caffeinated.

He slipped by the other seats, noting that there appeared to be only two other people in the cabin – one stout gentleman with a top-hat that looked distinctly outdated, and a young woman with striking features and dark hair.

None other than Selina Kyle, he realised, somewhat gobsmacked. And he probably should have said hi, he knew, but instead he found himself paused by the booth she sat in, watching for a moment as she flipped intently through an art magazine, and he decided to leave it be.

They’d spent a little time together in London, anyway, exploring a café or two. It hadn’t gone as bad as he’d thought it would, since their last breakup. She probably would have seen him on her way to her seat, and he found himself feeling simultaneously thankful that she hadn’t approached him, and guilty for feeling thankful in the first place. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want to talk to her; he just felt uncomfortable about the whole thing.

There had been a time when they’d told each other everything, and trusted each other with the world, and there was something so deeply disappointing about having lost that and knowing, for sure now, that they could never have it back again.

That had been years ago, and yet things still weren’t anywhere near the level of friendly comfort that they had been, before they’d dated.

And it was then, as he was pondering the unusual coincidence that they were yet again on the same flight, that he remembered the Gotham kidnapper with the crazy hair.

For a split second, he almost convinced himself it was all a dream.

And then there he was, standing by the door to the bathroom, which appeared to be occupied, all chartreuse and stick-thin. The cuffs were gone, and Bruce was immediately wary.

But the other man didn’t seem to notice him at first, so Bruce stopped, and let himself observe. There was no way he was approaching for a nice chat while they both waited for the bathroom. Kerr was wearing a yellow button-down, a purple coat, and purple dress pants. For a criminal, he dressed nice.

In fact, Bruce was sure that all his well-fitted clothes were of better quality than Bruce’s own. Not that that was really saying much – Bruce shopped sparingly and wore what he was given, which admittedly made red-carpet events quite awkward sometimes.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a muffled noise from within the bathroom, and when he glanced back towards Kerr, insidious green eyes caught his own and held them like glue.

“Ahh, Brucey Goosey.”

Bruce paused. The green-haired lunatic was looking right at him, leaning against a wall. There was something in his gaze that made Bruce feel like a deer in acidic headlights. “Kerr. Enjoying your flight?”

The man smiled, and Bruce felt as though there was something wrong with that expression. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what, but those pale and well-shaped lips stretched over pearly white teeth… He could have sworn there had been something more memorable about the smile.

“Oh, very much so.” There was a pause, and Bruce got the distinct impression that he was being studied like a frozen frog in a biology lab. “Enjoying your orphans?”

Bruce allowed a moment to go by. Allowed himself to take a breath. “Have I offended you in some way?”

“Offended me? Don’t be silly! We just met,” Kerr cooed, pushing off the wall and sidling up to Bruce. “I was only kidding, don’t mind my charming little jokes, darling.”

“Charming isn’t the word I’d use.”

The giggle that came forth from that expressive mouth was a sound that should have been alarming. Instead, Bruce found it curious. Intriguing, in a deeply disconcerting fashion. “Mmm, the papers like to use that one when they talk about you, don’t they? Charming Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham, Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome!” Another peel of laughter, then a slight hiccup.

“Don’t forget ‘Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor’,” Bruce found himself adding, a slight curl of his lips threatening to turn into a smile. A slightly more genuine one, this time.

“Oh goodness, no. I can’t believe they passed me up for that one!”

Bruce snorted. “Neither can I. The ladies must love the hair.”

This earned him a short ‘ha!’, and he glanced up to see a pout on the other man’s lips.

“Sore spot?”

“Hardly! I love my hair, Brucey. Think it goes well with my fair complexion,” Kerr drawled, before poking his tongue out at Bruce and leaving him rolling his eyes.

“You do sort of look like a clown.”

Kerr gave a mocking gasp. “You must say that to all the criminals on your international plane flights! You cheeky thing, you.”

“Are you supposed to have those off?” Bruce gestured vaguely to the other man, indicating his distinct lack of cuffs. Kerr’s eyes narrowed for a moment as he tried to figure out what he meant, before snorting and waving a dismissive hand in Bruce’s general direction.

“Don’t be so fretful! Of course I’m supposed to. Besides, my conscience is as clear as your radiant wealth!” He took a step closer again, close enough that Bruce could see the subtle movement of his tongue against his bottom lip, and note the fluttering of his eyelashes. He smelled like citrus and wax, and then Bruce remembered – that’s what’s missing, there was usually lipstick.

“I’ll let you in on something, shall I? I’ve been framed. I never intended to hurt our dear Mister Mayor! It was all an unfortunate misunderstanding, see.”

Bright red, immaculately applied lipstick, like something out of a cabaret show.

Bruce narrowed his eyes, found himself wanting to move back a step, but all the more determined to stand his ground. To remain in some semblance of control, while he faced a man who seemed to defy the very concept of control in the first place. “Why’d you run off to Europe, then? That’s what you did, isn’t it? An innocent man wouldn’t flee the country.”

Kerr put a hand on his heart, looking Bruce directly in the eye. They were almost the same height, which Bruce found a little surprising, being all of six feet, two inches, himself. “You’re a clever one, Brucey. That’s what I think.” He stood back then, and Bruce let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything, lawyer’s orders and all. But hey, if you bought me a drink--“

This thought would remain unfinished.

There was a static sound that made Bruce jolt, and he glanced about himself, looking to see if something was wrong, before the speakers crackled and the plane began to jolt violently.

There was a moment when everything seemed to become deadly silent, and Bruce became vaguely aware that he’d been knocked off his feet. The eye of the storm, he thought, moments before the world around him seemed to come crashing back to reality.

There was a flash of electricity, and a collective scream. Loud shouting, more crackling from the speakers, and then sudden and stifling darkness.

Bruce felt his heart sink into his gut, heard a clattering sound beside him that he barely registered as the toilet doors flung open. Cursing erupted nearby, but Bruce was only aware of the sickening feeling of descent. Slow, painful descent.

And he realised, that whatever had happened seemed to have entirely shorted whatever power this plane ran on. There was no more sound from the speakers, just screaming, and another violent jolt that forced him against the wall.

The plane was going down. It was an unmistakable feeling, and suddenly Bruce thought of Dick and Tim, and he thought of Alfred, and Barbara and Selina and Jim and Joseph _fucking_ Kerr and –

His head smacked the floor, and he found himself retching, throwing up coffee and champagne and vodka and regret. And it hurt, everything hurt, and he couldn’t stop being sick and his head wouldn’t process, couldn’t take on board what was happening to the full extent.

It was as though he was emotionally unavailable even as he knew the panic should be setting in.

There was one more jolt. Bruce thought he heard Kerr shouting something from somewhere close by. And then there was the shuddering, like the plane itself was trying to vomit its contents, and all Bruce could think was _Dick and Tim and Alfred and –_

Something roared in the darkness, a metallic tearing sound, and the noise was so intense suddenly? Where was the pilot? What was the pilot doing?

The last thing he remembered was a painfully bright lashing of sunlight, and the sound of broken glass, and then the silence of the inside of his own mind, and the bizarre awareness that he was leaving consciousness behind.

It was odd, he thought, that his mind was silent, for once.

Apparently fate was never on Bruce Wayne’s side.


	2. drop the game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for the comments and kudos, it means a ton to me! I hate to be ~that writer~ but it genuinely does motivate me a whole lot. I really appreciate it, folks. Here's to hoping this chapter isn't as bad as Mr. Self Doubt is telling me it is! And I guess we'll get to see how obvious it is that I like writing Crane more than literally anyone else ever.
> 
> Also, if you'd like, you can find me on Twitter at callmerubyn. I lurk about on there and occasionally scream into the void that is my ten followers.
> 
> Chapter title is taken from Drop the Game by Chet Faker, because I felt like it.

Bruce couldn’t tell if it was night or day. The sky was grey, the sea was grey, the sand was grey. And everything was pointing towards the fact that he was on a beach, which was probably the second most alarming realisation he’d come to in the past few seconds.

The first, was that Joseph Kerr was sprawled out across Bruce’s torso with his face in the sand and legs akimbo. This probably would have been more of a worry if the man hadn’t been groaning loudly, because at least Bruce could be sure he wasn’t dead.

“Kerr?” He muttered, allowing a beat to pass before the sudden panic set in. And then he was scrambling to his feet, tossing the green-haired creature aside, and taking in his surroundings.

Definitely some kind of beach, that much was obvious. His head spun, legs quivering with the sudden effort of having to hold his full weight. He couldn’t seem to come to grips with the situation, looking left, and then right, and then left, and up, and out across the ocean.

“Dick? Tim?” If the words that left his cracked and salt-sprayed lips were more of a whimper than the call he’d intended, that was his business.

Waves pummelled the shore in lazy, rhythmic droves, three in a row, then momentary stillness. For what felt like a long time, there was silence. The absence of thunder. And Bruce noticed the rain on his skin, and the sting of sand-infested abrasions being washed clean. It was gentle, and he felt his shoulders slump.

“Do I not get a ‘thank you’?”

A nuclear angel was righting itself in the sand, shifting and shuddering and then giving up on movement altogether. Kerr’s skin was deathly white, lips blue, eyes washed out and tired.

“I feel like I deserve it, you know.” His coat was gone, no more purple satin and fancy tailoring, just a very damp shirt the colour of a sad daffodil and a pair of salt-stained slacks. He looked miserable, but unnervingly put-together considering their circumstances. He reminded Bruce of a rat, ragged and decidedly worse for wear, but standing out of pure spite and a will for survival.

“Where are my,” Bruce swallowed, felt the raw burn of his throat as he did, then coughed up a trickle of saltwater into the sand. “-kids?” He paused again, felt another retch coming on. “The plane? Where’s the plane?”

The man in the sand simply gave a great exaggerated wave of his arms. It wasn’t helpful. The situation was slowly dawning on Bruce, coming back to him like a night of gin and slurred words. This time, he felt a lot more anxious. And this time, he found himself disassociating even further.

“C’mon, Brucey, take a look around! The chances of anyone actually making it here? Fucking slim!” The giggling that followed was enough to make Bruce double over, stomach clenching and mind flipping over on itself. Out of disgust, out of alarm, out of the illness that wouldn't leave his gut.

The plane had gone down, into the middle of the ocean, and it could have been hours that he was out for but he felt as though realistically it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. How did he get here?

“How did you get us here?”

Where was here, exactly?

“Where- “

“Shh, shh-shh. I don’t know! I plucked you out of the water like a soggy little kitten and we swam, duh! You helped, you know. Kept chanting about the orphans and the butler but I gotta tell you, this is a pretty good outcome! Land wasn’t too far off at all!”

In the distance, Bruce heard shouting. He was on his feet in seconds.

“Did you hear that?”

Kerr was already moving, legs carrying him faster than they ought to have been able to. “Oh, lookie there! Persons ahoy!”

The figures in the distance seemed to be more numerous the closer they got. He was vaguely aware of Kerr letting out a whoop of glee somewhere to his left, but he wasn’t really listening. His eyes moved from shape to shape, trying to find the blue sweater Dick had been wearing, Alfred’s crisp shirt, Tim’s red hoodie.

At most, he would estimate there were about twenty people standing together. They were approaching just as Bruce was, worried expressions and injured limbs, blood and fabric and so much sand…

“Bruce! Bruce! Alfred, it’s him!”

If a sound left his mouth, of relief or glee or bone-deep exhaustion, Bruce wasn’t really aware of it at all. His throat burned and Dick’s warm body felt supremely comforting against his own, even as his eyes fell on the old man sat on the beach, and the clustered forms beside him.

“Fuck, I was so worried,” he stammered, feeling all the energy leave him, holding his son and letting the emotions do as they pleased.

“We’re fine, it’s fine,” Dick responded, but Bruce wasn’t so sure, because why was Alfred not standing up? He pulled Dick along with him, heading through the small crowd and to his butler’s side.

He was immediately met with both good news and bad news. Alfred looked up at him, tired eyes lighting up just a fraction. He was unharmed, with an orange life jacket still strapped to his back. Selina was beside him, and though she didn’t look up as Bruce stumbled over to them, he knew that she was aware of his presence.

“He’s been unconscious the whole time,” she muttered, as Bruce crouched next to Tim’s nearly lifeless form. Instinctively, Bruce reached for his wrist, felt his pulse. Slow and steady. It was as though he was sleeping, and Bruce caressed his face, felt the warmth of his skin.

“Wayne,” there was Gordon, all bedraggled and quiet, composure just barely in place. “Barbara’s safe, Tim was with us when the power died.” There was a long moment in which Bruce felt the urge to scream, looking between the people he knew so well and the ocean that continued on oblivious behind them. It framed the whole scene, made Bruce’s stomach churn with anxiety.

And probably a lot of salt water, as it was.

“Brucey! Orphans! Jeeves!”

And then there was Kerr, standing at Bruce’s side now – why was he standing? After all of this, how? – and there were two women with him. The guard, however, was nowhere to be seen. Bruce could hardly bring himself to care.

“Are you all unharmed?” It was Gordon who spoke, and the billionaire Wayne was supremely relieved to have someone else take charge for a moment. Dick stood beside Alfred, staring almost sightlessly at Tim, and Bruce couldn’t think about anything else in that moment.

“Fine and dandy. Harleen here’s got a bit of a scrape, but she should be A-Okay!”

Bruce glanced at the women again, not recognising either. One with blonde hair and what was probably meant to be a smile on her lips, the other a curvy red-head with olive skin. The kind of women Bruce would have mindlessly hit on when his playboy persona was on auto-pilot.

“I’m fine!” The blonde chirped, hint of a southern twang coating her words, and Bruce found himself raising his eyebrows at Kerr's pale hand curled around her waist. Apparently, Joseph Kerr hadn’t been alone on the flight, which would have been suspicious if Bruce had it in him to give a fuck.

Gordon gave a nod, surveying the crowd. Aside from Bruce, the commissioner himself, Barbara, Alfred and the boys, Selina, Kerr and his two mysterious friends, there were around fifteen others. A few Icelandic natives, what appeared to be a father and daughter, some college students, a man with an umbrella, another with facial scarring, and a number of Gotham-bound businessmen.

Bruce was sure he recognised a few of them.

“Has anyone seen any suitcases or luggage? I had valuable stuff on that plane!” The man with the umbrella cried, pushing his way over to the police commissioner, who regarded him warily.

“There are more important things to worry about right now,” Selina cut in, sweeping green eyes over the miserable crowd. Bruce felt as though, despite everything, having her and Gordon around would be immensely reassuring.

Murmuring broke out amongst them, and Bruce glanced towards Alfred, who had his hand on Tim’s head in reassurance. The boy hadn’t stirred, and Bruce wondered if the action comforted Alfred more than it did the unconscious Tim.

Dick had his arms folded, brow furrowed, mouth set in a hard line, and Bruce found himself schooling his own expression because he was almost certain he looked the same. Dick seemed to take after him more accidentally than intentionally, these days.

“The plane separated, so if there were survivors on the other end, they could be further along the beach,” Selina added, earning a few nods from those who agreed. Bruce found himself immediately backing her up.

“We should search, we might even find the luggage, or some supplies. We’ll need water.”

He glanced towards the sparse wood further up the shore, tropical plants rearing against the horizon and casting a deceivingly pretty silhouette against the grey sky. If Bruce was not mistaken, it was becoming darker. Not with clouds, but because of impending nightfall. The thought chilled him to the bone for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“Water-shmorter! There are coconuts over there, and _I_   vote we look out for ourselves before we go looking for _trouble_ ,” Kerr drawled, standing there with one hand on his hip. “Besides, I don’t fancy trekking down the beach in the middle of the night. There could be cannibals here or something!”

Bruce couldn’t help but snort. “Cannibals? Where do you think we are?”

“I don’t know Brucey, but it sure as shit ain’t the US of A!”

“Do you know each other or something?” The redhead queried, and it took Bruce a moment to realise that she was talking to himself, and to Kerr.

“No,” answered Bruce, just as Kerr avidly nodded his head in affirmation.

Selina cleared her throat.

“We need some people to stay here anyway. People are too weak to go any further tonight,” she glanced over at Kerr, who was yawning exaggeratedly. “Besides, the maniac has a point. It’s about to get dark, and we need some kind of home-base close to here, for when the rescuers show up.”

“Rescuers? We’re miiiles away from anything, I reckon we may as well start repopulating this dingy little sand-mine,” Kerr cooed, snapping his teeth together right by the blonde’s ear and making her giggle.

Giggle, mind you, was probably not the right word. It was a cackle, reminiscent of a hyena, and Bruce caught himself before he winced outright.

“Shut up, Kerr. That’s not helpful,” growled an unfamiliar voice, thick with a Gotham street accent and the overlayed husk of exhaustion. Bruce turned, caught the eye of the man with facial burns, and attempted to hold his gaze.

Whether it was the burns or the fact that his stare was nearly more unnerving than even Kerr’s, Bruce didn’t know, but he found himself looking away faster than he would have liked.

Surprisingly, however, Kerr shut his mouth. Dramatically, and with his usual shitty flamboyance, but Bruce certainly wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Or an intimidating stranger in the eye.

“Bruce, do you want to look around up the shoreline?”

He snapped his gaze towards Selina once more, who was worrying her lip as she looked towards the swiftly darkening sky.

“I could do that,” he decided, swallowing thickly, his throat all sand and salt and cement. It burned, as did the image of a lifeless Tim in his mind’s eye. Somewhere to his left, Dick crouched, and Bruce made himself slowly get to his feet. “We’ll need people who aren’t wounded to come with me. As many as possible, really, if we find anything we need to carry.”

Whispers and mutterings rippled through the crowd once more. He waited, looking them over, feeling the tug of painful exhaustion and refusing to acknowledge it. He needed to be the Bruce Wayne that he knew he was, not the one Gotham read about in the papers and the glossy gossip articles.

“I’ll come, if ya want,” Kerr announced, quite suddenly, stepping forward and snapping his eyes up to meet Bruce’s own. Bruce, for his part, held that acidic gaze and let it corrode his insides like running water on granite.

“Not about what I want,” he stated, letting his voice come across as even and confident. He was going to prove himself, for Dick, for Tim, for Alfred. For whatever part of Selina still cared. For himself, most importantly. “Anyone else?”

The burned man moved forward, separating himself from the crowd that milled about behind Selina. The redhead, a businessman, the umbrella guy and the father followed his lead. Bruce found himself wishing he had better identifying factors to work with.

“Alright, Selina, are you okay?” he paused, wet his lips. “Okay to look after everyone, I mean?”

He received a nod in response. Bruce knew she was okay. He also knew that she did not want to oversee a small group of injured and language-bound children and adults, but that made two of them. At least he had Kerr accounted for.

“I’m Harvey Dent,” the man with the burns informed him, as their group split from the larger one. “Attorney. You’re Bruce Wayne.”

“That I am,” Bruce took a moment to look him up and down. “I’m surprised we’ve never met.”

“Maybe we have. I hear you do a lot of socialising,” something akin to a smile passed those lips, just a flicker of emotion behind one calculating eye. It wasn’t kind. “Then again, you’d remember a face like this.”

Bruce swallowed.

“Gentlemen! Are we good to go?”

In that moment, Bruce was _fairly sure_ he’d never been so thankful for a green-haired cretin in all his years. He also hoped, somewhat despairingly, that he’d never have to think such a thought again.

“We are,” he glanced towards the other four. The father, a man of around forty, by Bruce’s estimate, with a blonde ponytail and a rugged-looking face, stepped away from his daughter’s side with a brief pat on her back. Bruce couldn’t help but feel sorry for the girl.

“Brown. Arthur Brown,” he said, extending a hand to Bruce and seeming to ignore the rest of the group. Bruce shook it.

And then there was Oswald Cobblepot, scowl on his face, tattered umbrella in hand. He didn’t introduce himself; Dent did it for him. The businessman, who identified himself as one Coleman Reece, seemed to be entirely out of his element.

Bruce couldn’t blame him.

Pamela Isley was another story. She seemed to be the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. She said very little, listened a whole lot, and made Bruce feel slightly anxious in a way he couldn’t entirely pinpoint. The green button-up coat she was wearing looked like the warmest thing on the island.

They headed up the beach, Bruce in the lead, Kerr at his flank. He noted the smooth, wind-blown patterns in the sand, the lack of footprints. The bright green smudge of the tree line in the distance had him wishing for cover, if not from the weather then from the unnerving openness of the beach itself.

The waves had created a sand bank a little further up, and the spray occasionally whipped against Bruce’s face and neck. The small band of wrecked individuals must have made an odd picture, trekking with the wind against them and the ocean behind, he thought.

“Any sign of our plane?”

He eyed the green menace at his side, noting the deathly pallor sheen to his skin had taken on a slight bluish tinge. His lips quivered, teeth chattered, hair thrown back off his face. He looked too thin to be in such a precarious situation, and yet there was something there, in his eyes, that told Bruce he needn’t have felt even a smidgen of concern.

“No, nothing. I don’t even know where our half of it landed,” he informed Kerr, volume lingering around a yell as he battled against the powerful winds. Behind him, one of the others cursed, and Bruce found himself relating to a terrible extent.

“Perhaps this is like Lost, except not, because they had the plane right there with them in that one, didn’t they?” A beat of silence. “Then I guess it’s not like Lost at all. Have you seen any Polar bears?”

“What?” Bruce shook his head, “No, I haven’t. How do you know that blonde woman, by the way? I thought you were being transported to a prison or something,”

“Hey, what’s to say I knew her? Maybe she was immediately charmed by my gorgeous smile!”

“Unlikely.”

Kerr gave an offended snort, then attempted to flick his hair. The force of the wind had other ideas in mind. “Listen, I told you, that was all a big misunderstanding! I can’t say much, but I can tell you, Brucey Goosey, that not all is as it seems!”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I am not! I’m delightful, and you like me very much, Prince Charming,”

“That is entirely debatable,” Bruce informed him, not missing a beat. He may not have liked Kerr, but he did value having someone so irrationally _okay_ about this whole experience on his side.

And then there was something distinctly reminiscent of smoke in the distance.

It was, in fact, smoke.

“Is that – “

The beach ahead of them curved slightly, sloping into a steady rounded shape in the middle-distance. The greenery seemed to spread out here, spilling onto the shore and meeting the source of the smoke head-on.

Bruce sped up, and the murmurs in his wake him told him he wasn’t alone.

“It’s definitely something,”

His legs didn’t want any part in this, but he pushed on, trying to take lighter steps to combat the exhausting suck-and-pull of the sand at his heels.

The smoke appeared to be coming from a clump of rocks at what Bruce assumed was the tip, so to speak, of the island. Everything that wasn’t plant life was the same miserable beige. Bruce’s head ached. His brain ached, his skull and the space between, it ached. He didn’t want to go much further tonight.

The wind died around the rocks.

“Hello? Anyone?” Bruce risked, looking back at the men – and Pamela, decidedly _not_ a man, nor keen on being affiliated with them – who waited with baited breath.

“Anyone there?” Dent added, after a long moment of silence.

“Anyone seen a brown leather suitcase?”

Bruce frowned at Cobblepot, who seemed entirely oblivious. Kerr took one at look at Bruce’s expression, before yelling, “Can I borrow your lipstick?”

Just to be a prick, Bruce assumed.

“I have some, actually,” Pamela informed him, patting the front pockets of her coat.

Kerr raised his hands, telling her in a stage whisper, “Oh Pam, green is not my colour – not for the lips, anyway. Appreciate it, though!”

Bruce contemplated the benefits of deafness.

Then, from somewhere over the other side of a large sandstone ledge, there came a noise. Faint at first, but noticeable enough to make everyone freeze.

The tension became palpable, clinging to the air like a second skin, making Bruce instantaneously nervous. Something scuffed the top of the ledge.

“Is that Bruce Wayne?”

 

* * *

 

Jonathan Crane had been faced with a life or death situation the second he gained consciousness.

Under any other circumstances, a man of his calibre would have risen above and beyond. He was, after all, very good at getting himself out of sticky situations. Or wet situations, as it was.

However, trapped in a quickly sinking death pod, armed only with a dinner fork and his shoulder bag, it was nothing short of a miracle that he’d managed to survive. And the first thing he’d heard when he’d dragged himself ashore?

“Jonathan! I thought you’d died!”

When it came to Edward Nygma, Jonathan never really knew if he wanted to slap him or kiss him. Except he never wanted to kiss him, because that would be ridiculous.

Jonathan Crane didn’t _do_  ridiculous.

They had spent the next hour in a state of blissful relief, at being alive, at having food from Eddie’s bag, and finding decent shelter from the wind in the form of a rocky clearing just off the beach.

And then a man who called himself Dorrance joined them, and Edward had compared him to a gorilla, which didn’t go down well.

Within the hour, there were fourteen bedraggled and needy people sitting around a campfire, and Jonathan was beginning to think they should have hidden and let the masses fend for themselves. There was no food left, one man insisted on comparing everything to Alice in Wonderland, and the pilot? Well, he was very dead indeed.

If it hadn’t been for the sudden appearance of Bruce Wayne, he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t have waded back into the ocean from whence he came, Godzilla-style. Which was a very good film franchise, as far as he was concerned.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know,” Bruce murmured, looking back towards the way they’d come and scratching the back of his neck in absentminded dismay. He really ought to consult with Selina. It wasn’t like it should be his decision, anyway. Then again, what made it hers?

He really wished he had Alfred with him.

“We have shelter and a fire already, and it’s closer to the crash site. There’s literally no reason whatsoever that you can’t carry the injured ones and stay here. Overall, it’s a much better spot,” the man who said his name was Edward was insisting, gesturing to the fire around which a miserable group of people were warming their hands. “I wouldn’t have stayed here if it wasn’t, frankly.”

“I don’t really see why not,” Bruce said, at long last. Cobblepot and Dent had moved over towards the fire, Isley and Brown were hovering nearby, the former with her arms folded over her chest, and Reece was sitting on the ground and very obviously trying not to cry. Bruce would have felt sorry for him, but in all honesty, he envied the guy. It must have been nice to not have been randomly selected as the makeshift decision-maker for a very desperate group of people.

Joseph Kerr was partaking in the discussion. Bruce got the distinct feeling that Crane, who was apparently a doctor but had all the bedside manner of a brick, liked Kerr just about as much as he let on. Which was to say, not at all.

“Exactly, Brucey! We’ll gather the orphans and the Vikings, and settle down up here! I quite like not having to worry about blowing away!” He gave Bruce a large and exaggerated wink. “That’s not to say you don’t blow me away- “

“Okay, we’ll head back and get the others, then bring them here. Is there any more wood readily available? I have a feeling we’ll need a bigger fire.”

Bruce let out a breath. He was confident in his decision.

“We’re gonna need a bigger fire!” Kerr exclaimed, in a surprisingly accurate Roy Scheider impression.

Bruce stared at him for a moment, taking in the ridiculousness of it all. “You haven’t seen a larger, bald police escort by chance, have you?” He asked Crane.

The man shook his head. “For that one, I’m guessing?” he nodded in Kerr’s direction.

Bruce said nothing. It was going to be a long trek back to Alfred and the kids, not to mention getting them all safe and sound back to the shelter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Thanks for stopping by. I've made some revisions to my story plan, to account for a few things that I'm just generally too lazy to write, but I figure the next chapter will take about a week as well. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Voila! Do leave your thoughts, and I'll get up the second chapter ASAP. It's written, ready, and waiting for you all!
> 
> PS. All the chapters are going to have semi-related songs in their titles, because I'm unoriginal and music is the only reason I exist. This particular chapter title is This Time Tomorrow, by The Kinks. A song about plane trips, if you want to get technical.


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